


In the Aftermath

by Leela



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Brad "Cheeks" Bell RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, NO rape, date rape drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his control is stolen from him, Adam reaches out for help and finds something he thought he'd lost years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TechnicolorNina](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=TechnicolorNina), [Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor/gifts).



> **Beta** : @aislinntlc
> 
>  **A/N** : Written for @TechnicolorNina, who bid on and won one of my charity water auctions. And, yeah, just like all my other stories, this one also ended up a lot more than the 1k minimum mentioned in the auction post. 
> 
> And, yes, there are date rape drugs involved in this story, but there is no rape, dub-con, or non-con either implied, off-stage, or on-stage.

The club's banging. The bass is seriously distorted so close to the speakers, but Adam's beyond his annoyance at that and deep into the music. It drives his hips, thrums under his skin, fills him, and steals away his occasional worries about the way his dance partners keep on changing.

He squints at the guy in front of him. Cute and blond is totally not what he wants right now. Before he can say anything, though, large hands curl around his hips and yank his ass back into the man behind him. The guy's bigger than Adam, broader and stronger, and he stinks of sweat, booze, and cheap aftershave. Adam wrinkles his nose and pulls away. As he does, color flares out from the scarf of a nearby dancer.

The guy behind him whisper-shouts into Adam's ear, "You okay?" 

"Yeah," Adam says, "just gotta—" He waves a hand toward the men's room and stumbles off in that direction. 

He ducks past a couple arguing outside, stumbling and slamming his shoulder against the doorjamb as he pushes the door open. A twink gives him a weird look through too-long orange bangs before going back to painting his lips fuchsia, but no one else seems to notice. 

The stall in front of Adam opens, and he dives into it. He fumbles the lock for a few seconds before getting it and then leans back against the door and closes his eyes. His stomach swims ominously, and everything seems to spin for a second before righting itself. 

A thud against the door jerks Adam out of darkness. "Hey, you gonna do something in there or just hang out all fucking night?"

"Fuck off," Adam says, or at least he thinks he does. Holding on to the wall, he shuffles forward a step and works on undoing his belt and pants with his free hand.

The noises seem to satisfy the asshole, so Adam pauses and tries to think. This isn't him having one too many drinks. This is too damn wrong for that. He just wishes he knew what to do, wishes that someone would fucking come looking for him. 

Loud voices drag him out of the black water again. A couple of guys are arguing over a third, and everyone else seems to be getting into it as well. 

Adam blinks back tears. He daren't go out there. Whoever slipped him the shit was probably waiting for him. But he's got to get help. 

_Help._ The word pings an old memory from right before he moved into the Idol house. Brad and Neil putting their heads together and coming up with a way for Adam to get help if one of the good ol' boys decided to take their homophobia out on him. 

But is the thing on his new phone? Adam jams a trembling hand into his pocket, and on the third try, manages to wrangle his phone from the clutches of his jeans. 

He closes his eyes, not even trying to see the stupidly tiny keyboard, and enters the passcode by memory. Random swipes of his thumb send him on a dizzying slide back and forth through the pages of apps. Eventually, he hits gold. Or, more accurately, neon pink because Neil's that kind of asshole. 

The bright pink icon throbs in and out of Adam's peripheral vision, as he holds the phone up near his ear and waits. 

Finally, he hears Brad's voice. "Adam?" 

Licking his lips, clearing his throat, Adam finally manages to croak out, "Help."

"Oh shit. I'm in the middle of... give me a second, okay?" 

The murmuring of voices might as well be in another language as far as Adam's concerned. His knees start to buckle. He reaches for the wall and slams heavily back against the door again. 

"Twitter puts you at Bootsy's tonight," Brad says. "You still there?"

"Keep it the fuck down in there," a guy yells from the other side of the door. "Some of us are here to take a piss." 

"What?" Adam stares at his phone and puts it back to his ear. "I didn't go anywhere. I swear."

"Aaaaand you're in the bathroom. I recognize the attitude." 

Doors and voices and other strange noises come through Adam's phone. He bites down on his confusion as dizziness swoops through him. 

"Hurry," he says, when the sounds disappear in the roar of an engine. "I'm starting to fall."

"God, Adam, just fucking hold on. I'm coming, okay?"

"Hold on?" Adam almost drops his phone as he curls his fingers over the top of the stall divider and does as he's told.

☸

The slamming of a door against a wall shocks Adam awake an eyeblink after Brad hung up on him. Or at least that's what he thinks until he hears Brad's imperious voice from the other side of the door.

"Out! Out! Everybody out now!"

"Fuck off, we're busy in here," someone growls at him. 

"Not anymore, darlings. This bathroom is closed for the next few minutes."

"Who the fuck are you?"

Another voice, one whose name Adam can't quite remember, joins in with, "I'm the owner, and I'm telling you to do as he says. NOW!"

Adam's pretty sure he should be worried about not recognizing the guy, but the world is so far away. He reaches for the wall and its prettily dripping watercolors, but they rain out of his grasp.

"There you are."

Looking down, Adam sees Brad smiling up from the floor, from between his legs. "You've been there before," he says, since Brad needs to know that. He might not have said it right though, because Brad doesn't look happy.

When Adam blinks, he sees Brad standing in front of him. 

"I'm going to do you up," Brad says before he tucks Adam's dick into his pants and zips him up. 

"How?" Adam frowns and feels his forehead wrinkling. He reaches up to touch the lines. Sadly, they're still there, just like the marks on his cheeks, no matter what he does to get rid of them. 

"David, he's seriously fucked up," Brad says. "You've got to clear space so we can get him out of here without anyone copping a pic."

"Christ," says that voice again. "Do I need to call 911?"

Brad's hand is soft against the back of Adam's neck as he forces Adam to look at him. "You sick, baby? Throwing up? Passing out?"

Adam's forehead ripples into wrinkles again as he tries to think. Carefully, he shakes his head. "Please," he says, and he's thinking more words too, but they get lost between his brain and his mouth. So he repeats, "Please," because Brad always understands.

"No need for 911." Brad fits himself under Adam's arm. "Just hurry the fuck up so we can get him out of here. There are way too many camera phones attached to attention-seeking morons in your club."

The other voice, David's, is lost in the roar of sound that swirls over Adam. He closes his eyes to protect his ears, only to open them when the world shakes around him.

"Don't disappear on me, okay?"

"It's wrong." Adam brushes a fingertip over Brad's eyelashes. They're soft and not dark enough or thick enough with mascara. "Club," he adds helpfully when Brad looks confused.

"Oh, you are so fucked up." 

Brad sounds sad. Adam would do something about that, but the door starts moving behind him and everything sways dangerously close to darkness again.

"Come on," David says. "We're heading out the back way. Got someone waiting to take you home."

"What about my car?" 

"Give me your keys, and I'll get someone to drive it to your place after we close. You're not going to be able to take care of this idiot and drive anyway."

There's more conversation, but Adam can't listen to it and move his feet at the same time. It's hard to be a puppet, to move the right strings at the right time and not let yourself fall down. He does it though, mostly, clutching onto Brad and David until he can let himself topple into the back of a car.

☸

The room is dark when Adam wakes up. The drapes cover an entire wall, blocking out the sun. He's fine, seriously fine, until he opens his eyes.

His eyelashes hurt. His eyebrows, his skin, every single fucking pore on his body feels like somebody spent the night pounding on him with 50-pound weights. He groans, and his throat burns, and his stomach rebels.

"Oh god," he whimpers, scrabbling to his knees. He knows he won't make it to the bathroom in time but no way he wants to be sick all over the bed. 

He's halfway to the edge when a cool hand touches his forehead and a bowl is shoved in front of him.

He doesn't throw up. His stomach heaves, and he wishes he could, but he doesn't. Eventually, he puts the bowl down and levers himself into a sitting position. Curling over, he rests his head on his hands and tries to remember what the fuck he did. 

There's nothing, just an empty black space in his memory. The last thing he remembers from the night before is putting his drink down and heading for the dance floor. 

"You were roofied."

"Fuck." Adam swallows down the bile that rises in his throat and blinks back the tears that are scalding his eyes and turning Brad into a blur of bright colors.

"Drink this." 

Adam doesn't even hesitate before sipping from the glass that Brad's holding to his lips. The water is cool on his tongue and throat, soothing the burn. 

"Take these." 

This time Adam flashes a glance at the small heap of pills Brad puts in his hand, but he still swallows them without a word. 

"Vitamins, antacids, and ibuprofen," Brad says. "Not that you seem to care, tossing them back without checking—" He snaps his mouth shut when Adam flinches, and almost looks abashed as he drags his hand through his already disheveled hair. "Fuck, I can be such a bitch. Just ignore me."

As Adam tries to come up with a response, a thought flicks through his mind. It's dark and utterly terrifying, and has him clenching his ass muscles, laying down on his side and curling up.

"Hell, no. Don't you worry about that." Brad comes to sit on the bed next to Adam and strokes his fingers through Adam's hair. It's on the verge of painful just to be touched, but Adam has to close his eyes at the pleasure of it. "Absolutely nothing happened," Brad continues after a second. "You locked yourself in a bathroom stall and called me. David and I got you out without anyone seeing or taking pics. I swear to you."

Adam's so fucking relieved that he can't speak. Fuck, so relieved that he's about ready to cry like a baby. So he presses his face into the pillow, squeezing his eyes even more tightly shut, and pretends that the pillowcase isn't damp. 

There's a moment when Brad doesn't move, when his hand stills, and Adam feels like he fucked up even more. 

"Oh, baby, no," Brad breathes. Then he lays down and pulls Adam into his arms, and Adam finds himself half-lying on top of Brad, his face pressed into the curve of Brad's neck. When they're settled, Brad's hands move up and down Adam's back and arms in ways that are familiar and soothing. 

Adam falls asleep to gentle touches that take him back to a time when everything in his life seemed simpler, when it was all good between them and not layered with a million words, said and unsaid, that neither of them can take back.

☸

The sun is setting when Adam swims back to consciousness. The darkness feels like it's got claws sunk deep into his brain, leaving him groggy and cotton-mouthed, but he doesn't hurt anywhere near as much as he did before.

"Hey." Brad's right there, tablet in hand, sitting up on the bed next to him, legs stretched out, his thighs a pillow for Adam's head. "Welcome back again."

Adam's lips and tongue feel like they're stuck together. All he can manage is a strange grunting noise in response. He pats Brad's leg.

"If you want something to drink this time, you're going to have to sit up." 

There's not much sympathy in Brad's voice, but there is a lot of something Adam wants to believe is caring. He pushes himself up, gritting his teeth and refusing to close his eyes against the way the room sways around him. When he's sure nothing's going to move unexpectedly, he looks at Brad and croaks, "Water."

Smiling at him, Brad puts his tablet on the bedside table and hands Adam a glass of water. Adam takes it carefully, cradling it in both hands, and sips.

The water's room temperature, tastes a bit like LA tap water, and Adam's pretty sure it's the best he's ever had. He leans back to drain the last few drops before he gives up. His head only thumps a couple of times as he straightens up.

"You staying with me this time?"

Adam blinks at him. "Am I... what? Where would I go?" 

As he says it, a blurry image from years ago of him being on this same bed with different covers and with them wearing different clothes comes to him. "Whatever I did, I'm sorry," he says. 

Brad's lips press together into a line, and then he shakes his head. "Nothing for you to be sorry about. But if I ever catch that bitch who did this to you, he's dead. In every community from here to eternity."

"Aw, you love me." Adam feels relieved and awkward. He hasn't been alone with Brad in years, and he's never felt anything like this weird and strange weight between them. 

"I'll love you even more if you get up and take a shower."

The laugh that bursts out of Adam takes him by surprise and only hurts a little bit. He holds out his hand. "You gonna help me?" When Brad just looks at him, Adam adds, "Get to the bathroom, asshole. Unless you want me to fall flat on my face trying to navigate around the shit you've got stashed all over the place."

"Hey, I cleaned up," Brad protests. "And I kept Beau from waking you up." 

As if mentioning his name was a summons, a wet nose nuzzles into the skin just above Adam's elbow. He flinches but manages not to shove Beau away. Instead he reaches out and brings Beau into his lap. Brad's smile at him for doing that makes almost having his balls trampled on worth it. He scratches Beau behind the ears in thanks, then winces when Beau barks his appreciation.

"Shower time," Brad says, getting to his feet and pushing Beau to the floor. 

Arms around each other's waists, they make their way to the bathroom door. Adam feels too tall and too wobbly, and wishes, for pretty much the first time in his entire life, that he was smaller and could lean on Brad the way that so many of his boyfriends have leaned on him in the past. 

He's still thinking about that when Brad pushes him down on the — thankfully closed — toilet seat. 

"Sit," Brad says, and Adam giggles when Beau's ass hits the ground, his tail wagging and his expression expectant. "Oh, not you, sweetheart. This idiot."

Beau sinks down to the ground, putting his paws over his muzzle, looking dejected, and Adam giggles again.

"Oh my god," Adam says. "He's just like you. A little Cheeks in puppy form."

Without pausing in his attempt to get the bath just perfect, Brad lifts up one hand and flips Adam the bird.

"Love you too, baby." Adam blows him a kiss.

"And on that note," Brad says, "it's time for me to get Beau his dinner—" Beau jumps to his feet, barking and wagging his tail "—and for you to get undressed and into the bath."

Adam can't help but laugh as he watches Brad make his way out of the bathroom with Beau dancing around his feet. When the door is closed though, and Adam reaches for the hem of the shirt he wore to the club, a dark heaviness floods over him. He's suddenly torn between the urge to rip the clothing off his body and burn it, and wanting to leave it on so he doesn't have to know what horrors are lurking under them. 

He bites his lip, squeezes his eyes shut against the tears, and with trembling hands, pulls his shirt up and over his head. After throwing it into the furthest corner, he forces himself to open his eyes and look down. Nothing but freckles, a scattering of ginger hair, and the tiny roll of fat that he can never lose, no matter how thin he gets. 

Releasing a shaky breath, he grabs hold of the counter and uses that for balance as he stands up. His belt is gone, and all Adam can do is hope that Brad took it off when he bundled him into bed. "He promised," Adam whispers. "Promised that nothing happened, and Brad never lies. Never ever lies to me. He'd rather tear a hole in my heart with the truth."

The tight pants require careful maneuvering to get off, especially since Adam doesn't trust his balance enough to let go of the counter. Eventually they and his underwear are down far enough that he can sit down on the toilet seat again and push them off. 

More freckles. More ginger hair. And nothing else but the old yellowing bruise he got from horsing around with Riff, Keala, and Lee the week before. He cups a hand over his junk, and lifts up a leg so he can check his ass. It's clean and dry, and doesn't show any signs of being red, puffy, or used. Relief makes the room spin for a few seconds and catches him in that strange space between tears and laughter. 

"Fucking drugs," Adam hisses. 

When he's feeling stable enough, he pushes himself back to his feet. It's a few wobbly steps to the bathtub, but a little more of his strength seems to return with every one of them. He stands next to the tub for a moment before carefully sitting down. Feeling like an old man, he slides around, getting first one foot and then the next into the water.

He's just slipping into the tub when Brad comes back into the bathroom and sits on the floor next to the tub with his back against the wall, facing Adam.

Something settles inside Adam, and he relaxes in the bath, the hot water seeping into his muscles, the bubbles prickle-popping against his skin. The mixture of scents takes him back to a time of laughter, music, joy, and scrabbling to patch together enough work to pay the rent and eat. 

"Do you—" Adam begins.

"Not really." Brad brings his knees up and rests his chin on them. "Although I wouldn't mind having the hairline I had back then."

Adam sinks a little deeper into the water, so that the bubbles hit the underside of his chin. "No comment," he says, blowing his bangs out of his eyes because that's guaranteed to annoy the fuck out of Brad.

"Low fucking blow." Brad pats at his own hair with one hand, while reaching into the bath and splashing water at Adam's face with the other. 

Spluttering, Adam sticks out his tongue, making a face at the perfumed taste. "Oh, aren't you the grown up."

"One of us has to be." 

"Low blow."

"Not quite low enough." Brad flutters his fingers in the water over Adam's stomach. "You want me to wash your hair?"

It's an old code from an old game. One they'd played many afternoons after nights and mornings spent going from club to club, party to party, and coming home to one or the other of their apartments. Adam takes a deep breath, focuses on how his body feels, and when he comes up with _hung over at best_ , says, "Please."

Brad's palm against Adam's cheek is gentle. "If I ever find that piece of shit..." 

Anger flares in Adam, cold and vicious. "You won't get near him until after I'm done with him." 

"I could hold him down for you," Brad offers. "I still remember how to knot ropes."

Adam has no words for that, no answer, smart or dumb. He levers himself upright, sending a wave of water up to the edge and back down again, almost but not quite splashing over, and bends his head. 

The shampoo smells like Brad, the scent sharp enough to cut through the last of the cobweb fuzziness that's making it hard for Adam to think. Brad's fingers are long, sure and strong on Adam's scalp. Each press of Brad's fingertips, each rub against Adam's scalp, sends goosebumps shivering over Adam's skin. Again and again, until there are more goosebumps than freckles, and the pounding in Adam's head has eased into a faint ache.

He sighs when Brad's hands move away to turn on the tap and sluice warm water over Adam's hair. It's a small loss compared to so many others that have happened in Adam's life, but no less mourned for it. And that realization is what finally shocks Adam into complete wakefulness.

☸

The water's only lukewarm by the time Adam pulls the plug on the bathtub. His skin's tingling from Brad's bodywash, and the special scrubber that goes with it. Defoliating, according to Brad, but all Adam cares about is that every layer of skin that might have touched the bastard who drugged him is currently swirling down the drain.

He glances down at his body, at the drops of water, still clinging to him. "Gonna rinse off," he says and takes a step towards the shower.

Brad's hand on his arm stops him. "Adam, you're..." Brad trails off, as if he's lost for words, and that cracks something open inside Adam. Because it's wrong. So damn wrong. Brad is the one who taught him about words.

"Oh fuck, Brad," he manages before the trembling starts deep inside him.

Brad catches him and eases them both to the floor. Adam just curls up and lets Brad hold him. 

"Nothing happened," Brad says. "You're fine. You're safe. You took care of yourself." 

"I drank that shit. I wasn't paying attention, and I just drank it. All of it." Adam tugs at the spacer in his left ear, shooting a small sharp pain through his skull. "I'm such a fucking idiot. I know better."

"Yes, you do."

Raising his head, Adam glares at Brad. "Oh fuck you, bitch."

Brad lifts an eyebrow. "I've had better offers." 

"From me even, I'm sure."

They stare at each other for a second, then Adam starts giggling. It's insane and ridiculous. He's still shaken and angry, and yet he can't stop laughing. It only gets worse when Brad joins in. 

Eventually though, they quiet down. Brad picks at his now-wet pants and makes a face. Adam sticks out his tongue at him and refuses to apologize.

"You've got more where those came from," Adam says. "Your closet's even bigger than mine."

"Nothing that fits you though."

It's like a splash of reality, cold enough to shrivel Adam's balls. "I'm not putting that stuff back on. Ever." He waves at the crumpled pile of fabric in the corner. 

"My dressing gown's a bit on the big side. It should belt around your waist and fit around your ass." Brad draws a curvy shape in the air. "Then, while we're eating a rather late but yummy brunch, we'll have to figure out who you can trust to bring you something you're willing to wear in public."

"Oh my god," Adam groans as an image flashes through his mind. "Not Neil. Please, Brad, if you ever loved me, don't call Neil."

"You don't trust your own brother?" Brad flutters his eyelashes at Adam.

"To make me look like an idiot? Absolutely. Remember that time I had to call him after your car broke down on Sunset and—"

"Noooo..." Brad claps a hand over Adam's mouth. "I'd finally managed to wipe that whole episode and that pink-as-pepto piece of shit car from my memory."

They stare at each other in horror.

"Sutan?" Brad removes his hand from Adam's mouth.

"Out of town. Terrance? Shit, no, he doesn't have a key or the gate-code."

"Your mom?"

Adam shudders and shakes his head. "I'll have to tell her, I know, but not right now. I just can't deal."

There's a pause as Adam mentally runs through the short list of people who have keys to his apartment. "Lee," he says at the same time as Brad suggests, "Scarlett."

"They won't ask questions if you tell them you're not up for explaining," Brad says.

"Won't stop them from wanting to know." Adam pushes himself to his feet and reaches for the towels that Brad put out for him. 

He's got one towel wrapped around his hips and is rubbing at his hair with the other when Brad says, "The hell with secrets, Adam. We both know what happens when you try to keep shit like this on the downlow. It just heads for the surface and bites you on the ass when you least expect it."

Before Adam can respond, Brad adds, "I'll be in the kitchen, making brunch. There'll be enough if you want them to stay." 

Then the door closes, and Adam's alone. He hangs the towels over the rail and makes a face at his reflection. There's no way he wants to face anyone, not even Scarlett and Lee, looking this bad. He needs his armor. 

After a quick glance around the bathroom, he reaches for the gold and red hand-painted cupboard over the toilet. He runs a finger over the place where the gold filigree is flecked with silver, remembers laughing as Brad flicked his paintbrush at him and the wrestling match that had followed, that became so much more. 

His lopsided smile, and the strange ache that seems to go with it, grow as he sorts through the bottles, combs, brushes, and other things on the shelves. There's the boar bristle hairbrush he thought he'd lost years ago, and a small unopened bottle of the cologne he'd barely been able to afford but wore anyway. 

Adam turns to face the mirror again and starts to build his armor one deep breath, one rhythmic stroke of the brush at a time.

☸

Three days after leaving Brad's apartment, Adam finally feels like he's ready to face the world again. Nothing from his night out made the internet, except for a few pics that he remembers being taken before the dark emptiness in his memory and one tweet from a stranger who claimed he saw Adam and Brad ducking out of the alleyway with their arms wrapped around each other. His glamberts shut that guy down, trying to get more information out of him, and everyone else has remained silent.

The hazy, queasy remnants of the drug are long gone, except in Adam's memories. The only thing left to remind him that he was roofied is the hairbrush he'd stashed away in the bag Lee brought with him. And vague memories of crying on Brad's shoulder, of being comforted by Brad, of trusting Brad.

Running his fingertip over the bristles, Adam wanders out from the bathroom to the balcony that runs the length of his apartment. A warm breeze ripples over his bare chest and through his hair as he leans on the railing and looks out over the city. 

When his phone rings, he stands there for a second, tempted to ignore it, but his own curiosity and the need to stay on top of what's going on in the ever-changing, slippery world of music win out. He manages to swipe his finger over his phone to answer the call just before it flips over to voice mail. He doesn't see who's calling first.

"Hello?"

"So you're answering the phone now?"

"What?"

"I've been calling for the last couple of hours," Lee says. "We're getting tired of Riff asking when his Uncle Adam's going to say yes."

"Yes to what?" Tucking his phone between his shoulder and ear, Adam flicks on his iPad and taps in the keycode. The date flashes out at him and he frowns, sure there's nothing on his schedule. He taps the iCal icon and comes up empty for today and tomorrow except for a possible club crawl with Terrance, Johnny and the rest of the gang that makes him shudder just seeing it there.

"To joining Riff and Keala at their tea party on Sunday. We're going to have tea, coffee and maybe even something a bit stronger, funny little bite-sized sandwiches, cakes and cookies and ice cream. Everything you can imagine they might need at a tea party, including ridiculous games designed to make Tommy cringe and try to back away before Riff drags him in. Everything except their Uncle Adam."

"Oh, yeah. What time?" With a few taps, Adam adds the party to his calendar and deletes the club crawl. Not that he couldn't go... if he wanted to.

"Yo, Adam." 

Lee's voice makes Adam jump and ask, irritably, "What?" 

"You okay?"

 _I'm fine_ is on the tip of Adam's tongue, but he can't quite get the words out. He shrugs. "Been thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself."

A half-smile on his face, Adam automatically responds with, "Hasn't happened yet."

"There's a first time for everything," Lee says, then after a brief pause adds, "including you being a hermit."

"I'm not—" Adam stops, feeling sheepish. "I've been thinking." 

"He broke up with his boyfriend almost two months ago." 

"What?"

"Brad." There's a rattling noise in the background and the thump of Lee's boots hitting the desk, as he puts his feet up. "Brad's single and so are you."

Adam's heart thumps in his chest, and he grips the railing. "I don't—"

"Yes, you do, and so does he."

"You don't understand. We've tried, more than once, and talked it all the way through and back again. We just don't work together. Not like that. We agreed." Adam can hear the plaintiveness, feel the need for Lee to agree with him. He's really not sure he can do this again, not sure he can give Brad the tiny piece of his heart that Brad doesn't already have, wait for everything to fall apart—

"Bullshit," Lee says flatly, cutting through Adam's near panic. "First time out, you were kids, and second time, you were in the middle of a massive career shift. It's different now, for both of you." 

"But what if it doesn't work?"

"What if it does?"

Adam doesn't have an answer for that, not when his brain is throwing up images of Brad taking care of him, when he can remember how it felt to be held by Brad, to hold Brad.

"Third time lucky," Lee says. "Now call him and bring him to the party on Sunday."

After Lee hangs up, Adam flips over to Twitter on his iPad and checks his DMs. He curls his left hand, and his phone, close to him as he reads and taps out his replies. 

Finally, when he's finished with his DMs, skimmed through his @ replies, checked his Instagram feed and gone back over to check for replies to his DMs, Adam leans back on the couch and stares at his phone. He wants to hear Brad's voice, he really does, but all he can think about is what it would be like to be shot down.

What it would be like if he doesn't get shot down.

As if in a dream, Adam unlocks his phone and finds Brad's number in his contacts. His finger hovers over Brad's cell number briefly before he taps Send Message. Eventually, he figures out what to say. A throwback message that brings up good memories of feeding Brad and being fed by Brad, of Brad's lips sliding over his fingers, of licking Brad's fingers. 

_Lunch today? The Abbey? We could share appetizers._

The delay while he waits for a response seems to last forever. He has to hit his screen a couple of times to stop it from automatically locking up. But then he sees the indicator that Brad's typing a reply. It disappears briefly before returning.

_I can't do lunch. Have a conference call, 11 to 2._

Adam is still trying to figure out how to reply, and what he's going to say to Lee when the little typing icon comes up again. Swallowing down the painful lump in his throat, he tries to remember to breathe. 

_I've got a craving for sushi. Take me to that place? You know which one._

It's an invitation, a message, an agreement that Brad's willing to try again. That he's willing to go out in public and brave the paps with Adam.

A silly grin on his face, his heart hammering out a double beat, Adam pumps his fist in the air. "Yes!" Then he taps out a response.

_Nine?_

_8:30. And don't forget we need a car to get home. <3 _

"That was one time," Adam mutters, "and you're never ever going to let me forget it, are you?"

 _Bitch moan bitch._

_And yet you love me._

"Yes," Adam says. "Yes, I do."


End file.
